Saving Illya
by lilidelafield
Summary: This story references events from my stories HELLO IN THERE and OF HEARTS AND BULLETS. It is intended as a sequel to OF HEARTS AND BULLETS. Illya is grief stricken and inconsolable after the murder of his wife. How can his friends help him?


Illya sat alone on a bench in Central Park, doing nothing, just watching people passing by.

Now that he was sitting and watching, he was astounded how many people walking through here were part of a couple. Two people together, arm in arm. He had never really noticed before, but those individuals walking alone were in the minority.

It had been two months since his wedding. His wife Claire had been dead now for two months. Two whole months, eight and a half weeks had passed since that fateful day that he and Claire had tied the knot only for her to be gunned down right outside the building. Two months for him to try and get back to normal. Only it seemed that nothing was normal any longer. Psychiatric had been on at him to attend his appointments, but he had refused some, made excuses for others, and those that he had had no way of avoiding, he had either sat sullen, silent and un-cooperative, or he had utilized his talent for misdirection, avoiding talking about himself at all, putting on a cheery façade. He knew, however, that Doctor Fergus was not fooled.

She had not made the mistake others had made of trying to answer him and redirect him back on track. She had simply sat silently watching him with her big amber eyes, listening silently to him speak until he had talked himself out. Then she had asked him her direct question and he had been forced to openly refuse to answer it, make some excuse about another appointment, and leave. He knew he would not be signed fit for field work until Doctor Fergus was satisfied. He could not avoid her forever. Right now, though, he simply could not face it. It was easier to try and forget Claire had ever existed than face up to her loss. He had lost many people in his life. Claire, he felt, was one too many.

Napoleon was as understanding as ever. Everyone dealt with loss and pain in different ways, but he had been there himself. Mister Waverly however, although very kind and understanding, was beginning to get annoyed by the repeated reports from Psychiatric about Illya's continued refusal to cooperate. Illya was aware that if he continued to hedge, there was the distinct possibility that Mister Waverly might start to run out of sympathy and patience.

He rubbed his face with his hands, and as he looked up, he saw just two feet away, a young couple had paused their stroll and were kissing passionately. They ended their kiss with a warm embrace, and then strolled on, hand in hand. Illya closed his eyes, trying to dismiss the image of Claire that was insistently dancing before him, and when he opened them, Del Floria's assistant, Sammy Warwick was standing before him, smiling.

"Mind if I share your bench young man? Sorry I have no hotdog to share with you, but you are welcome to a peppermint?"

Illya smiled and took a peppermint from the bag Sammy held out. He shuffled aside slightly, and Sammy sat beside him. They sat silently at first, sucking on their peppermints. Then Sammy heaved a sigh.

"You know son, that day I was sitting on this bench, when you came up and offered to share your hotdog with me…that day started off very low. I think you were the first person I had seen that day who was not arm in arm with someone else."

He shook his head and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, then offered Illya a slightly self-conscious smile.

"Sorry son, but I was watching that young couple a moment ago kissing. Put me so much in mind of my Eva…we were young and in love like that."

Illya didn't want to hear it, but was interested despite himself. He heard himself asking;

"How long were you married?"

"Two years…she died over thirty-eight years ago, giving birth to our son."

"I'm sorry."

"That day we met, Illya? That would have been our fortieth wedding anniversary. That's why I was here that day. She always loved this place. She loved nature. Sometimes I still miss her so badly it hurts like a physical pain."

"I suppose having a son to care for helped you to keep going?"

Sammy shook his head.

"Not at first, son. The first few months I went to pieces. I couldn't cry, I couldn't talk about her, I was scared to think about her in case I lost control of myself. I hated the boy at first because he looked just like her. He had her eyes. Eva's parents cared for him until I was back on my feet."

Illya turned his head suddenly and stared at the old man, but Sammy was looking straight ahead, his eyes far away. Then, he turned and looked at Illya.

"The last time we were here together, we were picnicking on the grass. She was eight months pregnant, and couldn't get up by herself very easily. I pulled her to her feet, but fell backwards myself and bumped into a passing tradesman and knocked him flying. I finished up lying on my back, covered in orange paint."

Illya chuckled, and Sammy smiled and sat back.

"I still dream of Eva you know Illya. You probably dream of Claire, right?"

Illya nodded.

"Every night." He murmured quietly. Sammy looked sympathetic.

"You probably always will, son, but it will get easier to live with."

"If it still hurts you after so many years…?" Illya's voice broke, and he fell silent, leaving the question unasked. Sammy looked down at his hands.

"You already know the answer to your question son. Just as I did thirty-eight years ago. I was a policeman, Illya. I was tough and independent. I was not going to admit that I was unable to cope. I struggled on alone, insisting that I was fine, but I wasn't really. I see it now. I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown before my father sat me down and made me realize that it's okay to have feelings, that all of us need help from time to time. He also reminded me that grieving is natural and that suffering from grief did not mean I was weak. In fact, he pointed out that if I had not been grieving, I would be some kind of inhuman monster."

Illya said nothing, but Sammy thought he spied a single tear fall down the Russian's cheek.

"You don't have a father to remind you of these things do you, son?"

"He died a long time ago."

Sammy nodded.

"You lost a lot of people in the war I imagine? Me too. Allow me for the moment to take the part of a father-figure who cares about you. I don't know what you are feeling, but I think I can imagine. I know Mister Solo has some understanding, and believe it or not, Mister Waverly understands too. He has lost people himself in his time. We all care about you Illya, and we all want to help. You don't have to cope with your loss all on your own. No man could possibly."

"So what do you all want me to do? Go in to Doctor Fergus and talk to her when I can't even talk to my friends?"

Sammy shook his head.

"No, Illya. You will do that when you're ready. You need to stop denying yourself the right to grieve. You are doing what I did, I think? Pretending that Claire didn't exist? If you had never met her, then you wouldn't have this pain now.?"

Illya looked up then, and Sammy met his eyes. His heart went out to the younger man. That desperately sad expression in the eyes that Illya was so good at masking had broken through, and it almost broke Sammy's heart. He was right. Another loss, one that he wasn't ready for; one that he was not prepared to accept. To either deny the loss, imagine that the loved one was away on a long trip or something; or to simply pretend they had never met. Illya may have been born and brought up on another continent, in totally different circumstances, but some things about the young Soviet reminded him so much of himself when he was young.

"Is that how you have learned to cope?"

Wordlessly, Illya nodded.

"It works…it used to…anyway."

"It does for a time, son, but I found that instead of making the issue go away, it festered and became larger instead of smaller."

"What about your son?" Illya desperately tried to deflect the focus of the conversation from himself. Sammy smiled sadly.

"Tom was a good boy. He was about nine months old when I was able to take care of him myself, and he was as good as gold for me, right from the start. Slept through the night most nights, generally kept out of trouble, loved rolling around in mud it seemed. I recall having to do a whole load of washing almost every night because he had got his school clothes muddy on his way home. But he was a good boy…he kept me busy."

Sammy heaved a long sigh and shook his head.

"I lost Tom in the Korean war. He was an ambulance driver, and his ambulance got hit by a shell. He was due to be discharged three days later."

"I'm so sorry, Sammy. I seem to be wallowing in my own troubles, don't I?"

Sammy smiled and clasped Illya's arm.

"You have every right to wallow, son. But your Claire…she loved you up until the moment she died, and if she was given the choice to trade places with you, she would refuse. You know it."

Illya nodded. He did know that.

"Illya, do her the honour of remembering her, thinking about her and crying for her. She deserves that much. _You_ deserve that. Take some time off work, so that you can weep for her as much as you need to, and then let people help you."

Sammy stood up.

"I have to go. Bill wants me to take over for a couple of hours this afternoon, so I need to be off."

Illya stood up.

"Sammy…thank you for trying to help."

Sammy smiled.

"When I lost Eva, I remember feeling so alone. No one knew her or missed her like me, and I felt so isolated. Try not to isolate yourself son. Let your friends help you. Don't be afraid to show your feelings in front of them. If you need me anytime, just come. I mean it."

Sammy turned and hurried away. Illya watched him, sorry to see him go. Sammy had told him not to try and forget Claire, but to deliberately bring her to mind. To think about her, let himself grieve properly for her. He was afraid to do that. Afraid of letting go all the pent-up emotion, scared of how far it might take him.

If time softened his memories, it might become easier after a while, but Illya knew that it would not happen. His memory stubbornly refused to let go of anything. He knew that twenty years from now, if he was still living, his memories of Claire would be just as vivid as they were right now. Even now, if he brought her to the front of his mind, he could still smell her. The smell of her hair, her perfume, everything about her was still so clear and fresh in his mind; it was as if she was standing in front of him. He gulped, and fought himself, then stood up and headed back towards home. As Sammy's words started to hit home, he found a huge knot of something lodged in the pit of his stomach; something very large and impassable in his throat. He started to run, desperation making him faster still.

If he let himself grieve for her, it meant admitting that he was never, ever going to see her again, and although he knew it was the truth, the fact of it broke him up. He made it to his apartment building and, too impatient to wait for the lift, he started running up the stairs, the lump in his throat getting bigger and more uncomfortable. He fell through his front door and just managed to lock it behind himself before the explosion happened. It took him by surprise in its intensity. All the pent-up grief he had been denying and choking back for all those weeks seemed to have been waiting to ambush him.

He sank to his knees, sobbing aloud and desperately, hot salty tears wetting his face, his arms tightly wrapped around his middle, as if trying to hold in the pain.

Alexander Waverly looked up as Napoleon Solo entered the computer room at headquarters.

"Did you enjoy your sailing trip, Mister Solo?"

Napoleon grimaced.

"Thank you sir, but not really. A storm broke out the first night and the high waves caused my anchor cable to break and we drifted miles before I could get the waterlogged engine to start. Then the power plant died and all the food ruined, and I ended up with food poisoning. I haven't been that ill in a long time."

"I am sorry to hear that. Have you heard from Mister Kuryakin?"

Napoleon was instantly alert.

"No, is he all right?"

"I had a call from him two days ago, saying that he was indisposed, and he would be back in a day or two."

"And you've not heard from him since?"

Waverly shook his head.

"No. Mister Warwick, Del Floria's assistant mentioned he happened to meet up with Illya in Central Park, but he did not elucidate further."

"If you don't need me sir, I think I should go and make sure he's all right."

"I do need you Mister Solo, but your partner is important. I can give you three hours. I need you back here by midday without fail."

"Thank you Mister Waverly."

Napoleon wasted no time.

On his way out, passing through Del Floria's he saw both the elderly men in attendance. Del Floria was patiently teaching Sammy Warwick some of his more complex cleaning tips. They looked up as Napoleon paused by the desk.

"Hey Sammy, Mister Waverly mentioned you saw my partner a couple of days ago."

Sammy nodded, smiling at the younger man.

"That I did young man. We sat together on a park bench and chatted."

"I'm going to see him now, check to make sure he's okay."

Sammy nodded.

"Be gentle with him, Mister Solo. He's more vulnerable than he lets on. Especially right now."

Napoleon nodded.

"I know. He tries to hide it. He thinks it's a weakness."

"Don't blame him for that. That's no doubt the product of his past training. Here, please give him this, with my warm regards."

Sammy reached around his neck and removed a gold chain and handed it to Napoleon. He took it and looked down at it.

"Your locket?"

Sammy nodded.

"It's for him to keep. Let him examine it himself. He'll work out what to do with it."

Napoleon nodded, and left the shop.

When he reached Illya's apartment, he had to knock several times before his partner answered the door. The figure that stood there clearly had to keep fast hold of the door to stay upright. Illya was unwashed and unkempt, his hair matted and standing on end, three days' stubble, clad in an old paint-splashed pair of jogging bottoms and a horribly oversized vest. He reeked of alcohol. Napoleon wrinkled his nose as he stepped past his friend and into the apartment.

Illya, although half-drunk and slightly unsteady on his feet, was not yet too far gone to recognize the reason for this visit, and he closed the front door and turned with a defiant expression, ready to defend himself if necessary. Instead, to his surprise, he found only compassion on Napoleon's face.

"You've been drinking. Has it helped?"

Illya shook his head.

"Not really."

Napoleon glanced around at the piles of bottles littering the apartment.

"It scares me to see this, Illya. Drinking won't bring Claire back and it won't help you forget. It just delays matters. When you finally manage to face what has happened, it'll be harder."

"That's what Sammy said."

"He's a wise old man. Finding Sam Warwick to help Del Floria was a very sound move on your part, Illya."

He fished in his pocket and brought out the locket.

"Here, he asked me to give you this. He says it's yours to keep, and that you should examine it. He said you'll know what to do with it."

Napoleon handed it to Illya, who dropped down onto the sofa and turned it over and over in his hand, then opened it. He stared at it, and gave a choking sob, which he instantly suppressed. He glanced up at Napoleon with eyes that were slightly wet.

"I've seen this once before. It used to have to small pictures in it, one on each side. One of Sammy and the other of his late wife Eva. Look at what he's done."

Napoleon looked at the inside of the locket and his heart quickened. Now, the two pictures had been removed. On the left side of the locket, a tiny photo of Sammy and his wife posing together had been inserted. The other side was empty.

"He wants you to…"

"Put in a picture of me and Claire…then wear the locket, so that she will always be with me…"

"Dear, sweet old man." Napoleon said softly, handing the locket back to his partner, who held it up for a moment, and then hung it around his neck. He looked up, his face crumbling.

"Sammy told me that after he lost his wife, he almost had a nervous breakdown before he let someone help him. He said I should let my friends help me…"

Napoleon sat beside him.

"Illya, that's all we want to do. We want to be here for you. I want to help you. You really don't have to do this all on your own. You've been carrying on all this time, and your friends, who are as upset as you are about what happened, are afraid of showing their feelings in front of you in case they upset or offend you."

"I was always alone, Napoleon. It was mandatory. We show no weakness. Weakness is death. We learned to ignore and deny our weaknesses, or be punished. I don't know how to let go…I've had moments when it sort of exploded, but how do I…Napoleon, Claire was going to teach me how to be human. She promised me. How do I live without her? Sammy's been without his Eva for thirty-eight years now, and he still misses her. He still has days when he cries for her. How can I live with that pain again? I lost Elli and Dimitri, and now…"

Illya swallowed something, his face white and his eyes wide and staring.

"I don't want to live for one year without Claire, or even for one more week. How can I live for another forty or fifty years without her?"

Speechless, Napoleon pulled his friend into a hug, which Illya resisted for a few moments before succumbing to the comfort. Napoleon heard no sound from his friend, but he could certainly feel him trembling.

"Come on my friend." He said finally, in a voice that brooked no argument. "We need to get you some help. I'm taking you into medical."

Illya pulled away and rubbed his face with the heel of his hands.

"…and to psychiatric?"

Napoleon nodded.

"The new doctor down there is really good, Illya. She really cares, and she really can help you if you let her."

Illya nodded.

"I…I'll try Napoleon."

"What say we go down to medical now, and see doctor Fergus. Mister Waverly has plans for me this afternoon. Tonight, if medical are happy to let you leave, you can come home with me. It's easier to handle things if you are not alone every second."

Illya shook his head.

"I wouldn't be very good company, Napoleon…"

He grinned.

"Really? Then it's a good thing I don't need to be entertained. You can be as happy or as sad, as grumpy as you need to be, so long as I can stop you from being alone all the time. What do you say? My spare bedroom, waited on hand and foot, someone to shout and moan at, a permanently available shoulder to cry on…"

Illya gave a watery smile and nodded.

"Thank you Napoleon."

Sammy Warwick reflected thoughtfully that it had been a few weeks since he had seen young Mister Kuryakin. The Russian had been instructed by medical and by psychiatric to work just a few hours each day until he felt stronger, and it happened that it had always been Del Floria on duty when the young man checked in and out of headquarters. He knew that Illya had been staying with Napoleon Solo, and had been attending daily counselling sessions with Doctor Fergus, and by all accounts, behaving himself and cooperating. He had just reached his home after a busy afternoon at work, when his front doorbell rang. He hurried to answer it. It was Illya Kuryakin.

"Illya! My dear boy, come in, son."

Illya entered the apartment and was surprised to find it looked nothing like his own sparse home, or like Napoleon's bachelor-pad. It looked like it still had a feminine touch taking care of things. Sammy smiled as he saw Illya staring round appreciatively.

"I've tried to keep the place the way Eva would approve…except for my drum-kit. I must say she didn't like that very much, but it has been my only concession to being my own man."

"And you play?"

Sammy nodded.

"Of course…a bit rusty these days of course. You play at all?"

Illya nodded.

"Yes…"

Sammy raised his eyebrows in query and Illya smiled lopsidedly.

"Um…balalaika, guitar, piano, cello…and…"

"…and?"

"I am learning how to play bagpipes."

Sammy burst out laughing.

"I bet your neighbours are loving that one!"

"Actually they all signed a petition to stop me playing anywhere within fifty feet of the building. I've had to give it up for now until I find somewhere more soundproof where I can practice."

"My spare bedroom."

"Really?"

Sammy nodded.

"I soundproofed it when we first got married, with the intention of buying my drum-kit and setting up in there, but Eva put her foot down. She wanted the spare room to go to the baby of course…as things turned out I didn't need to remove the proofing, so I use it to play my drums. You're welcome to join me, even with your bagpipes. Are you any good?"

"You mean with the bagpipes?" Illya grinned. "Actually…no, not yet."

There was a pause, then Illya looked up.

"Sammy, I came to thank you."

"Thank me for what, son?"

"You gave me some very sound advice the other week, and when I finally managed to follow it, things started to get better."

Sammy nodded, looking humbled.

"I'm so glad, son."

"Er…you remember one of the things you said to me that day in the park? That you wanted to take the part of a father figure for me? Well, you did, and… well, I would be grateful if you would continue to do so."

Sammy stared at him, stunned into silence. Illya looked slightly diffident, but ploughed on nonetheless.

"My father and grandfather were both killed when the Nazis invaded my homeland. I was a very small boy at the time. Since then I've not had anyone to…"

His voice gave out, but Sammy crossed the room and swept him into a tight embrace that said a lot more than words could have. His eyes were shining with tears of joyous pride.

"Illya, you are a young man any father would be proud to call a son. Thank you…and I will!"

"This is for you…papa!"

Sammy's eyes spilled over at Illya's use of the term `papa', and he took the little box whilst sniffing and wiping his eyes with his free hand.

"Thank you…what is it?"

"Open it up."

Sammy opened the box and took out a little silver framed photograph. The picture was of a small boy of about three years old with white-blond hair wearing an oversized black trench-style coat clutching a ushanka in his hands, smiling Illya's shy smile straight at the camera. In the corner of the picture, Illya had written;

"Thank you for saving my life; Illyusha."

Sammy stared at the picture and looked up.

"This is you?"

Illya nodded.

"The only picture I have of myself as a child. I really want you to have it."

Sammy grinned at him and placed the picture on the mantel, and stood back to admire it.

"I'd say it belongs there. Thank you, Illya."

"Thank _you_ Sammy…sorry, _papa!_ You came by when I needed you most, even though I didn't realize it at the time. You saved me from becoming too swallowed up in my grief."

"How are you doing with that now, son?"

"As you say, there are good and bad days. The number of good days are increasing as time passes. Doctor Fergus is actually a very good doctor. She has helped me to work out strategies that help when memories overwhelm me, and it is working. She has approved me for field work. I start back on Monday. I think Napoleon thanks you too for helping him to get his partner back."

Sammy got up wordlessly, poured out two small glasses of lemonade and handed one to Illya.

"Sorry it is only lemonade, son, I can't drink alcohol you see. But try to imagine it as the very best champagne. By way of a celebration."

"Celebration?"

"I've gained a new son; you a father; and we both have had the privilege of knowing and loving the best women in the world. Some people never do have that blessing."

Illya nodded, breathing deeply, blinking away the sudden tears brought on by Sammy's words. The old man was quite right after all.

They both drank.


End file.
